The Way The World Turns
by The Sarcastic Typo
Summary: Charles meets someone in a bar who makes a lasting impression. PegCharles, implied HawkeyeBJ.


**Title:** The Way The World Turns  
**Summary: **Charles meets someone in a bar who makes a lasting impression.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Pairing:** Peg/Charles, implied BJ/Hawkeye.  
**Disclaimer: **Haha, this is Peg/Charles. Isn't it obvious it's not mine?  
**Word Count: **1,757  
**A/N: **Uhm. Well, see, it all started with an MST where there were Peg/Charles overtones. I was trying to write Hawkney, but this happened instead. Thanks for the beta, Kelly.

He sits in a dimly lit bar, finishing the last of his scotch. The jukebox in the background is playing something suitably melancholy, as though it were cognitive of his mood

He is usually above these sorts of establishments, with their less-than-the-best liquor, cheap decorations, and more seedy customers. However, they do afford him the one thing he craves right now: anonymity. There is no chance to be anonymous at the posh bars where country club members gather and socialize. One has to be constantly smiling, exuding a sense of slight arrogance, superiority. Everyone is watching, waiting for the smallest failure. Everyone knows who everyone is and carefully mingles while silently hoping for the demise of those around them, or for a way to get ahead. It is a quiet, bloodthirsty game, tiring and exhilarating at the same time.

He excels at the game; of course he does. Winchesters do nothing less. They are simply the best and everyone wishes for the day that they will no longer on top. Charles arrogantly smirks as he motions to the bartender for another drink. That day will never come. He is sure of it.

The war has been over for three years now. _Did they ever actually refer to it as a war? _Charles wonders briefly. It does not matter; it did not matter then and it does not matter now. All that mattered was that it was horrifying, whether it had the official title of 'war' or not.

Charles finds himself traveling often these days, feeling somewhat aimless, though he despises that description. He only thinks it to himself. His family thinks he's scouring the country for new business opportunities. Only he knows the truth.

He allows himself an entirely undignified snort at that thought. What business opportunities could possibly arise in this run-down little town—Woodland, California? He is willing to wager that not many people have even heard of it.

Looking up at the sound of movement, Charles notices that an attractive blonde woman has sat down on the stool next to him. A quick glance around tells him what he already guessed; she is not a regular, and the scum who frequent this establishment are soon going to be vying for her attention.

He is not surprised; this woman appears far more lovely than any this riff-raff has probably ever laid eyes upon. Though he supposes she would be far more beautiful if she were smiling.

Charles cannot help himself; he asks her what is wrong. Perhaps he merely requires a distraction from his own troubles, or perhaps he is genuinely concerned—since having been forced to share quarters with the likes of Pierce and Hunnicutt, his level of compassion has raised. He does not know for sure, but he knows it does not matter.

The lady stiffens and replies, "Nothing."

He always wonders why people bother to lie when they do so unconvincingly. "Pardon me, my dear lady, but it seems otherwise from my point of view."

She really looks at him then, slight surprise evidence in her eyes. "You're not from around here."

"Correct. I am from the lovely city known as Boston. Charles Em–" He stops himself. He is so used to giving his full title. "Charles," he says, holding out his hand.

She looks uncertain before shaking it. "Peg," she adds before taking another drink of her beverage. "So, Charles, what brings you all the way out to California? You seem like a man who has a lot of important things to do."

Charles takes a moment to mentally commend himself for exuding superiority even when he is unknown to his audience. "I am," he responds. No need to hide such a thing. "I am here on business."

Peg smiles, though it's slightly twisted. "Just like there's nothing wrong with me," she answers, taking another sip of her drink—gin, Charles notes.

He regards her curiously. Something about this woman is intriguing. "I am here because..." He pauses. Why _is_ he here, in this small-town bar, conversing with a complete stranger? "Because I do not know where I am supposed to be," he finally admits. It is the first time he's admitted it—to himself orto anyone else.

"I'm here because my husband is in love with someone else," she tells him matter-of-factly, taking another drink from her glass.

Charles' eyes narrow. "People who are so loathsome as to take on a mistress while wed do not deserve the privilege of marriage."

Peg laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Oh, he doesn't have a mistress. He's completely faithful. Except where it matters."

Ah, now Charles understands. Someone too cowardly to admit the truth so they carry on a facade and hurt themselves and others in the process. "I think that may be worse."

She looks into his eyes. "It is."

What foolish man could stop loving this woman? "If I may say so, my lady, your husband is an utter imbecile."

Peg's smile is at least slightly genuine this time. "You may say so. And it's Peg, not 'my lady.' My, you're formal, aren't you?"

"I do apologize. I am merely a product of my upbringing. It included manya lesson on how to properly treat a woman."

"Don't apologize," Peg replies, smiling again. "It's nice, if unnecessary."

Charles gallantly offers a half bow. "I do try." He notices that Peg has finished her drink. "Allow me to purchase you another beverage. Gin, correct?"

"Oh, you don't have to."

"Of course I don't. I merely want to," he responds, signaling the bartender. He sees Peg smiling at him again. "Have I said something amusing?"

"You're so pompous but you're so up front about it. That's refreshing," she says, smirking.

He would be offended at the pompous comment were he not aware it was absolutely true. As it is, he merely smirks back. "Like I said previously—I do try." The bartender serves Peg her second drink and the conversation lulls for a moment.

"Are you married?" she asks eventually.

"I am not, unfortunately," he responds. "I wish to be," he adds, wistfully—if Winchesters are ever wistful.

Peg smiles sympathetically. "I hope that wish comes true for you," she says.

Charles nods politely, realizing, with a mild amount of surprise, that she means it. Of course, hopes and wishes do not get one anywhere—he knows this from experience—but the sincerity is pleasant. "What are you planning to do about the situation involving your husband?"

Peg shrugs, staring into her drink. "What can I do? I have to live with it."

"You do not deserve that."

Peg looks up at him again, her piercing blue eyes searing straight into his. He cannot look away. "You don't even know me. How do you know what I deserve?"

Charles scoffs. "I know a lovely woman when I meet one. Lovely women do not deserve to be trapped in a marriage with a man who is in love with someone else. Do you know the identity of the woman who has his heart?"

The noise Peg makes is strange. "I know who it is," she says finally.

"Is she someone close to you?" he wonders, trying to understand her strange behavior. It is an uncomfortable situation, but her reaction to that question was quite bizarre.

"I've never met them," she answers. "Him. I've never met _him_."

Charles blinks, nearly thrown off guard. Well, suffice to say, he had not been expecting that! "Your husband is–"

"Homosexual?" Peg shrugs. "I don't think so. I think that the circumstances of where they met are the only reason it even happened. But it doesn't matter, because my husband is carrying on, pretending nothing is wrong even though I know it is. And I will do the same thing, because I don't have any other option."

"You could–"

"Divorce him? No I couldn't. My mother and father would never understand. They'd treat me as though I were the reason. They're very old fashioned."

"There must be something you can do," Charles insists.

"There is, apparently," Peg answers, smiling. "Driving a few miles to a small town, finding a bar, and ending up talking to a Bostonian stranger. It seems to help." She drinks the last of her glass and stands up. "Well, I do need to get going. It was nice chatting with you, Charles."

"Please, allow me to walk you to your vehicle. The vagrants who inhabit this place are not to be trusted, especially in their intoxicated states."

"Thank you," she replies.

Charles leaves money on the bar—enough for himself and the drink he bought for her—before following her out. It is a cool, fall evening—the wind rustles and blows colorful leaves around the parking lot. They reach a small, green car, and Peg turns to face Charles. "Thank you," she whispers, repeating her earlier pledge of gratitude.

He does not expect the kiss.

"My lady," he says, after they pull apart. He is rarely completely shocked, but he is sure he appears so now. "I am sorry. You are married. I couldn't possibly–"

She smiles. "I didn't expect anything more. One thing I can tell is that you're a man of principle, Charles. I just wanted to properly express how you've helped me." She opens her door and slides into her car.

"You are a lovely woman," he tells her. "If the circumstances were different–"

"Yes, only if that were so," she answers, sighing. "But they're not, and I suppose we have to live with the way things are."

Life is not fair. Charles knows that. He was taught that at a very early age. Still, he cannot stop himself from voicing the thought that has entered his mind: "It is not fair."

Peg smiles sadly. "No, it's not." She pauses, and they share another long glance. "Well, goodnight, Charles. And remember—it's Peg."

He stands in the parking lot watches her leave, not looking away until her tail light is finally out of sight. _Peg_. He doubts he'll ever forget.

It's a lovely name for a lovely woman.

Charles sighs to himself before going back into the bar to call for his car. Ten minutes later he is entering his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Charles Emerson Winchester III is not a man who is easily swayed by hopes and daydreams because work and reality are the only things he can count on. However, as they drive back to the hotel he is staying at—it's in Mill Valley, not this city—he cannot help but wish circumstances were different.

For both himself and Peg.

-End


End file.
